The Cords of Vanity | Page 3

THE CORDS OF VANITY is but the first of the earlier books to be reissued in the format of the uniform and accessible Intended Edition.
While THE CORDS OF VANITY was out of print, a fresh copy is known to have been acquired for twenty-five cents. Copies of a more recent work by the same hand--a tale which has been rendered equally unavailable to the public, though by slightly different considerations--have fetched as much as one hundred times that sum. This arithmetic may be, in part, the gauge of an unsought and distasteful notoriety; but that very notoriety, by the most natural of transitions, will lead the curious on from what cannot be obtained to what can, and some who have begun by seeking one particular work of a great artist will end by discovering the artist. In short, it is rational to expect that the fortunes hereafter of this rewritten novel will very excellently illustrate the uses of adversity.
Not, I repeat, that any great part of the reward for such writing can come from without. According to Robert Etheridge Townsend, "a man writes admirable prose not at all for the sake of having it read, but for the more sensible reason that he enjoys playing solitaire"--a not un-Cabellian saying. And, even of the reward from without, it may be questioned whether the really indispensable part ever comes from the multitude. A lady with whose more candid opinions the writer of this is more frequently favored nowadays than of old has said: "Every time I hear of somebody who has wanted one of these books without being able to get it, or who, having got it, has conceded it nothing better than the disdain of an ignoramus, I feel as if I must forthwith get out the copy and read it through again and again, until I have read it once for every person who has rejected it or been denied it." One may feel reasonably sure that it is this kind of solicitude, rather than any possible sanction from the crowd, which would be thought of by the author of this book as "the exact high prize through desire of which we write".
WILSON FOLLETT.
CHESHIRE, CONNECTICUT
_May, 1920_

CONTENTS:
THE PROLOGUE
I HE SITS OUT A DANCE
II HE LOVES EXTENSIVELY
III HE EARNS A STICK-PIN
IV HE TALKS WITH CHARTERIS
V HE REVISITS FAIRHAVEN AND THE PLAY
VI HE CHATS OVER A HEDGE
VII HE GOES MAD IN A GARDEN
VIII HE DUELS WITH A STUPID WOMAN
IX HE PUTS HIS TONGUE IN HIS CHEEK
X HE SAMPLES NEW EMOTIONS
XI HE POSTURES AMONG CHIMNEY-POTS
XII HE FACES HIMSELF AND REMEMBERS
XIII HE BAITS UPON THE JOURNEY
XIV HE PARTICIPATES IN A BRAVE JEST
XV HE DECIDES TO AMUSE HIMSELF
XVI HE SEEKS FOR COPY
XVII HE PROVIDES COPY
XVIII HE SPENDS AN AFTERNOON IN ARDEN
XIX HE PLAYS THE IMPROVIDENT FOOL
XX HE DINES OUT, IMPEDED BY SUPERSTITIONS
XXI HE IS URGED TO DESERT HIS GALLEY
XXII HE CLEANS THE SLATE
XXIII HE REVILES DESTINY AND CLIMBS A WALL
XXIV HE RECONCILES SENTIMENT AND REASON
XXV HE ADVANCES IN THE ATTACK ON SELWOODE
XXVI HE ASSISTS IN THE DIVERSION OF BIRDS
XXVII HE CALLS, COUNSELS, AND CONSIDERS
XXVIII HE PARTICIPATES IN SUNDRY CONFIDENCES
XXIX HE ALLOWS THE MERITS OF IMPERFECTION
XXX HE GILDS THE WEATHER-VANE
THE EPILOGUE: WHICH SUGGESTS THAT SECOND THOUGHTS--

THE PROLOGUE
_"In the house and garden of his dream he saw a child moving, and could divide the main streams at least of the winds that had played on him, and study so the first stage in that mental journey."_

_The Prologue: Which Deals with the Essentials_
_1--Writing_
It appeared to me that my circumstances clamored for betterment, because never in my life have I been able to endure the contact of unhappiness. And my mother was always crying now, over (though I did not know it) the luckiest chance which had ever befallen her; and that made me cry too, without understanding exactly why.
So the child, that then was I, procured a pencil and a bit of wrapping-paper, and began to write laboriously:
"DEAR LORD
"You know that Papa died and please comfort Mama and give Father a crown of Glory Ammen
"Your lamb and very sincerely yours
"ROBERT ETHERIDGE TOWNSEND."
This appeared to the point as I re-read it, and of course God would understand that children were not expected to write quite as straight across the paper as grown people. The one problem was how to deliver this, my first letter, most expeditiously, because when your mother cried you always cried too, and couldn't stop, not even when you wanted to, not even when she promised you five cents, and it all made you horribly uncomfortable.
I knew that the big Bible on the parlor table was God's book. Probably God read it very often, since anybody would be proud of having written a book as big as that and would want to look at it every day. So I tiptoed into the darkened parlor. I use the